


Bottles of Thedas

by InquisitorLavellan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Snuggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:05:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3550352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InquisitorLavellan/pseuds/InquisitorLavellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sitting at the bar, a half empty bottle of beer in his hands and a scowl on his face that would have made Cassandra proud, was the last person Dorian would have ever expected to see. The Inquisitor. Ashavan had never once had a drink in the tavern since this whole mess had started. He didn’t drink. In any other circumstance, Dorian would have been glad to see the Inquisitor give up his ridiculous temperance policy and grab a drink with him, but this, this meant that something was seriously wrong." After the Winter Palace, the Inquisitor's past starts to haunt him, and Dorian has to figure out how to comfort the drunk and upset elf. Hurt/Comfort, eventual fluff and snuggles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bottles of Thedas

For some reason, Dorian just couldn’t sleep. Granted, it had been a strange couple of days; Halamshiral had certainly caused a stir. Ever since the ball, Dorian couldn’t stop thinking about his life back in Tevinter. “ _Homesick,_ ” he thought with a bitter laugh. Despite the glaring faults of his homeland, there were still things Dorian missed. He had been lying in bed for hours attempting to sleep, but making no progress. Reluctantly, he walked out of his room into the night towards the only remaining light in Skyhold, that of the tavern. A glass or two of liquor might help him sleep. It usually did.

The tavern was uncharacteristically empty at this time of night. Typically, a chorus of raucous laughter could be heard before even entering the building, but tonight there was only an eerie quiet. He opened the door, the creak of the hinges sounding deafening compared to the silence. He scanned the tavern, finding it completely empty. He looked again. Well, almost empty.

Sitting at the bar, a half empty bottle of beer in his hands and a scowl on his face that would have made Cassandra proud, was the last person Dorian would have ever expected to see. The Inquisitor. Dorian just stood in the doorway for a while, stunned. Ashavan had never once had a drink in the tavern since this whole mess had started. He didn’t drink. Dorian distinctly remembered his surprise when he had invited Ashavan for a drink after meeting his father Redcliffe, and he had replied, “No, thanks, but I don’t drink. I’d be happy to join you for some tea or something sometime though,” to which Dorian had replied that _he_ was the brave one, getting through all of this shit without even an ounce of liquor.

In any other circumstance, Dorian would have been glad to see the Inquisitor give up his ridiculous temperance policy and grab a drink with him, but _this_ , this meant that something was seriously wrong. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do. He had an excellent wit, sure, and he was great for a laugh. But being comforting wasn’t exactly his forte. After a moments debate, Dorian finally walked up to the bar and sat on the stool next to Ashavan. He wasn’t sure how to help, but he had to try. That’s what his whole _relationship_ thing was supposed to mean, wasn’t it?

As Dorian sat down, Ashavan’s eyes looked sideways for a second before returning to the bottle of liquor clasped in his hands. He had certainly seen him, but he didn’t say anything, which Dorian did not take as a good start. The Inquisitor raised the bottle to his lips, gulping it down until the bottle was empty. He slammed the bottle down onto the bar, coughing from the unfamiliar burning in his throat.

“This stuff tastes terrible, by the way,” he said, clearly intending to make a joke, but there was no humor in voice. “I don’t understand why people like it.”

“It’s not really about the taste,” Dorian replied, “It’s about drowning your problems. Which I presume is why you’re drinking it, not that I understand what reason you could possibly have. Halamshiral was quite the success. I’m all for some celebratory drinking, but you missed the party by a couple of hours.” He cursed himself for joking, as always. Ashavan was clearly in no mood for his wit at present.

“Celebrating,” the elf said, barely above a whisper. He laughed, but it was bitter and sarcastic, not his usual happy, almost giggly chuckle that Dorian adored. “Celebrating,” he repeated, louder this time. His strong yet lithe fingers tightened around the bottle. “Tell me why in the Maker’s name should I be celebrating?” His voice had risen to a yell. “Yes, let’s all celebrate the Inquisitor being a lying, blackmailing, conniving, manipulative bastard! What a hero! Three cheers for the biggest ass in Thedas!” His shoulders rose and fell violently with his loud and angry breathes. His face was red with anger and alcohol and his fingers were shaking, barely able to hold onto the bottle.

Dorian flinched, taken aback by his unexpected outburst. He sat there dumbly in complete silence as Ashavan reached for another bottle, twisting off the top and taking another long guzzle of the fiery liquid.

Dorian knew Ashavan had distaste for the dishonesty of his work, he just hadn’t realized how much. Occasionally, through a crack in his usual mask of self-confidence, Ashavan revealed that he wasn’t proud of the life he had led before the Inquisition, of being a spy in Orlais. It hadn’t exactly seemed like a big deal, the Inquisition employed a number of spies, former and current. In fact, Dorian was rather impressed that he had managed to pass as Orlesian nobility as well as he had, given that he was actually an elf. He would have paid to see some of those nobles’ faces if they ever figured _that_ out. Before, however, Dorian had always taken his comments as wistful, fleeting moments of regret, not the sheer self-loathing he saw now. It hurt an inexplicable amount to see him like this. 

“Amatus,” Dorian started, hoping the right words would find him as he spoke, “No business in Orlais doesn’t involve lying and double-dealing, but what you did was for the good of Thedas and the Inquisition. Besides, they were the real asses and definitely had it coming to them. I think it was really too kind of you _not_ to share their dirty little secrets with the entire court. Spying isn’t such an ill-regarded profession, certainly not as bad as being a mage, or worse, a magister! People are generally saying that _I’m_ the evil and manipulative one.”

Ashavan let out a long sigh, and the anger seemed to go with it, leaving a profound sadness in its wake. “Before I became the Inquisitor, I considered this another game, another act. I had played countless roles before; I could certainly play the heroic Herald of Andraste. But after Haven, they needed a real hero and trusted that _I_ was that hero. Trust is something one rarely finds in my line of work, and I wanted desperately to be worthy of it. After all of our dashing heroics in Thedas, I deluded myself into thinking I was, into believing I really was a ‘hero.’ But they shoved me back into the thick of the Game again and I fell right back into old habits. I missed it. I _enjoyed_ it. I will always be some manipulative, lying, backstabbing spy and no magic green mark and fancy title can change that.”

Yet again Dorian was left momentarily speechless, a condition so rare for him. He had always been told he had a way with words. Why did that gift seem to leave him when he needed it most? Dorian contemplated numerous strategies of response before finally settling on his opinion. If there was one thing Dorian was good at, it was stating his opinion. “Amatus, I don’t think you’re manipulative or conniving or any of those other words, and no one else in the Inquisition does either. All of your actions here have proven you’re the hero you want to be. You’ve earned their trust and respect,” his voice lowered, becoming softer and more intimate, “You’ve certainly earned mine. I wish you didn’t feel the need to do this to yourself.”

Ashavan looked up at him, a smile forming on his lips, though his eyes were still sad, misty with unshed tears. He chuckled, a small amount of humor returning to his voice along with a slight slurring from the alcohol. “I’m quite a mess, aren’t I?” he said, running his fingers through his uncharacteristically disheveled hair.

“A mess, certainly,” Dorian said, gently kissing the elf’s lips, “Still a handsome mess, though.”

“I think I’ve heard enough flattery from you tonight,” Ashavan said with a laugh, one of those adorable giggly ones. “I’m fairly certain I’ve never looked worse, and that’s saying something after those countless weeks in the rain on the Storm Coast fighting demons.”

“Don’t remind me,” Dorian said with a groan, “I hate the Storm Coast. All that moisture wreaks havoc on the hair.”

Ashavan started to laugh, but halfway through it turned into a loud yawn. “I guess I should...get...getsomesleep,” he mumbled. The alcohol was definitely starting to take effect. The elf moved to get onto his feet, but almost stumbled into one of the support beams in the tavern.

“Sweet Maker, you’re drunk! That’s what you get for starting out with three bottles of beer. It’s a wonder you didn’t drink yourself under the table,” Dorian said as he stood to catch the elf before he crashed face-first onto the tavern floor.

“IthinkImight...needsomehelp,” Ashavan slurred out as he put his arm across Dorian’s shoulders for support.

Dorian grumbled, though mostly in jest, and wrapped his arm around the Inquisitor’s small waist. They set out across the courtyard toward the main building, Dorian practically dragging Ashavan’s feet across the grass. “Thank the Maker elves are so slender,” Dorian grumbled as he helped Ashavan up the steps, “Otherwise I might have just had to leave you here.” Ashavan just stuck out his tongue at him.

After great effort (and even more stairs), the pair finally made it to the Inquisitor’s quarters. After Dorian closed the door behind them, Ashavan turned around to face him and put his hands on his shoulders.

“Thank you. I know it was _such_ a difficult endeavor,” he said, smirking.

“It was,” Dorian replied with a smirk of his own, “I almost left you at the bottom of the last flight of stairs.”

“Now look who’s lying,” Ashavan replied. He leaned in toward Dorian in an attempt to kiss him, but his lips missed and landed on his mustache instead. Ashavan giggled and murmured “Tickly.”

Dorian had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. If Ashavan hadn’t been so distraught earlier, Dorian would have been tempted to tease him about this in the morning. The elf was acting totally ridiculous.

Ashavan stumbled over to his bed and flopped onto his stomach, his head turned to the side on the pillow. Dorian was just turning to leave when Ashavan patted the empty side of the bed next to him and said “Come here.”

Dorian turned around and laughed, eyebrows raised, “You’re not in any shape to-“

“That’s not what I was talking about. Just come here.”

Dorian rolled his eyes but decided to amuse the drunk elf. He walked over and sat down on the bed next to him. “What is this about? Do you need something?”

“Yes. I need you to lie down,” Ashavan replied.

Dorian rolled his eyes once again, but he granted the elf’s request. He started to ask, “Are you going to tell me what this about?”

Before he could finish, Ashavan rolled over beside him, resting his head on Dorian’s chest like it was a pillow. One of his arms reached across the other man’s chest in a light embrace. “There,” Ashavan mumbled “That’s better.”

Dorian was at somewhat of a loss. He had done many things in a bed before, some of which would make a Chantry sister turn redder than her robe, but _snuggle_ was not among them. “ _This_ is what you called me over here for?” Dorian questioned incredulously.

“Mmmhmm. Nice, isn’t it?” Ashavan replied. And Dorian had to admit it was. Strange, weird, unexpected but...nice.

“You’re not expecting me to stay all night, are you?” Dorian questioned. He hadn’t yet, and Maker knew there were more than enough tongues wagging already without servants finding him in the Inquisitor’s quarters in the morning.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Ashavan said. Dorian could feel the corner of the elf’s mouth lift into a smile against his chest. “You make a good pillow.”

“This is really going to start people talking, you know, and for once we aren’t even doing anything. I don’t really think this is a good idea.”

Ashavan laughed, “It’s not like they’d be getting the wrong impression. And, contrary to your opinion, this is one of the best ideas I’ve ever had.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re drunk,” Dorian replied humorously, though he sincerely hoped that wasn’t the truth. If this was part of Ashavan’s idea of being _more_ , well...he could certainly get used to it.

“Nuh-uh, I mean it,” Ashavan replied with a yawn, “Goodnight.”

Still unsure, Dorian opened his mouth to protest again, but Ashavan was already asleep. The Inquisitor had this uncanny ability to fall asleep instantly just about anywhere, including, apparently, while using Dorian as a pillow.

The elf was light enough. If he wanted to leave, he could just gently slide his head onto his actual pillow and slip out without him noticing. But he didn’t. Instead, he gently kissed the sleeping Inquisitor’s hair and whispered, “Goodnight, Amatus.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is part of my Inquisitor/Dorian drabbles collection I'm working on. I haven't linked them into a series yet because I have a terrible habit of writing out of chronological order. If you enjoyed this fic, I hope you'll check out my other drabble "Names." Thanks again!


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